Logs:Harm Reduction

Harm Reduction
cn: drug use, both controlled and chaotic; non-fatal overdose; references to transactional sex by a minor; alcoholism; anti-drug user stigma; ableism; emotional manipulation/abuse; cancer; references to medical abuse; homelessness
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Matt	highs and lows "{You won't let me turn into Mother, will you?}"
Location occasionally a blur
october 2006 The rowhouse is condemned and autumn is coming on fast, but the chill doesn’t reach where Matt has collapsed sidelong onto a mostly-inflated air mattress. Not yet. He’s shivering anyway, though for all his sickly pallor he mainly looks irritated because it’s impeding his attempts to roll up his sleeve. "{I think they have got it into their heads that pain keeps the cancer away.}" He sounds light enough about this, though what’s laid out on his rolling tray today beside the lighter is a little plastic bag of white powder, a syringe, and a bottle cap. "{But at least they have left me with this.}" 'This' being, presumably, the PICC line neatly taped to his skinny forearm. He hesitates as he gingerly uncaps the port that leads into the vein in his arm, looking up. "{You won't let me turn into Mother, will you?}" Lucien is providing not much assistance in the preparation department. He's seated cross-legged on the floor beside the mattress, back not quite propped against the wall owing to his rhythmic back-and-forth rocking. The forty beside him is half-empty but currently ignored, as is the A Midsummer Night's Dream script tossed carelessly open atop his chemistry textbook. He has a phone in his hand that he has been staring at with no discernible change in his expression but an increased agitation in his rocking. The rocking doesn't cease when he tosses the phone in irritated disgust onto the mattress (it's open to an article entitled "Nurses Concerned About PICC Line Abuse", with an extremely generic stock image of a random syringe as a header. Beneath the byline it reads, "Trusting Injection Drug Users With A Central Access Line At Home May Increase Patient Convenience, But At What Cost?") It does come to an abrupt halt, though, with Matt's question. His eyes skip to the plastic bag, then up to Matt's face. His legs pull up slowly, curling in toward his chest and his arms wrapping around his shins. The shiver that ripples through him is small and not entirely counterbalanced by the crook of smile he dredges up, wan and tentative, to offer Matt as his chin drops to his knees. august 2007 The motel room is dingy and smells perpetually like mildew underneath the cigarette smoke lingering in the curtains and threadbare carpeting. Outside it is sweltering but in here the overly rattly AC has it a barely-livable kind of freezing. Lucien is making a beeline for it the very moment he gets in, head ducked and eyes scrunched nearly shut; they stay that way even after he's turned the knob down, after he's emptied the pockets of his tight jeans onto the scuffed table. The wad of cash he brings with him is -- not as thick as it could be, not as thick as it would have been without the plastic baggie he tosses toward Matt. He's just slumping in the ugly green armchair beside the table, shifting uncomfortably in it almost as soon as he's sat down. He scrubs a hand over his face; doesn't succeed in scrubbing the twisted expression off of it. "Sorry," is the only thing he gets out, aloud. It's hard to tell whether Matt was asleep when the door opened, but he is levering himself up now. There's a binder open on the bed beside him atop a heavy American history textbook, but what he'd probably been reading when he passed out is the crisp paperback copy of Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere still tucked against his chest. He is too sluggish to catch the bounty Lucien brings him, but flashes a bright smile all the same; the soothing ripple beneath it is subtle and wholly unconscious. "Thank you." He shoves his schoolwork aside, sets the novel down more gently, pulling a toiletry bag from the drawer in the nightstand and prepping his implements with eager familiarity. Then he stills, gaze slanting toward his brother, his expression opaque. "{You do so much for me, I know it is exhausting.}" He does not wait for an answer. "I am not in so much pain now, but you--" His slender black brows lift as he waggles the little baggie. "--this can ease yours, too." "Think there's a mutant out there who can stop pain instead of -- all this? That would be nice." Lucien's voice comes out kind of thick, kind of heavy. He cracks an eye open at Matt's offer. Casts it warily in his brother's direction, his shoulders tightening inward. His arms have pulled in tight, held protectively in against his chest and well away from the scratchy coarse upholstery of the armchair. His mouth works in silence momentarily before he summons uncertain words to accompany the motion. "{-- wasn't going to stay long. Take a nap, maybe. Ramble gets busy after dark, and --}" His jaw tightens, fingers curling harder at his sides. "I can imagine mutants with the power to do just about anything." The corner of Matt's mouth gives a mirthless twitch. "If it runs in the family, maybe mine is getting cancer, though if so I was precocious." He had just plucked up the water bottle from the nightstand, but now he lowers it to his lap and studies his brother's posture. "{You need a break. This will make napping a sight easier--and more pleasant.}" He actually smiles again, not sharp and bright but warm with affection. "{How long was I skimming Mother's stash without getting hooked? Come.}" december 2008 Despite his weakness, Matt insists on transferring himself from the wheelchair to the bed, grimacing with pain through the whole procedure. "{Dear gods, I don't know what vendetta my care team had against perfectly legal painkillers.}" Having spent what little strength the chemo left him, he seems quite unequal to shedding his winter layers, save by pulling the toque from his pale bare head. "But I suppose I ought to be grateful for the incidental detox." He bites his lower lip hard, leaving a white mark on already pallid skin. "Or at least I could take advantage of it and try to--stay clean? I'm sure the doctors would approve of my healthy new outlook if they didn't already think I had that." The quirk of his wispy brow is bemused. "{Though I'm not actually sure constant agony is much healthier than constant high.}" "{Cancer is all it takes to get clean? Don't know why everyone isn't signing up for that.}" Lucien has not been hovering, honest! -- but he is there right away all the same, once Matt is settled, to help him out of the heavy winter things. The corner of his mouth twitches, a dryness in his tone: "{And there is an opioid epidemic, you know. Can't be too careful or someone may get hooked.}" He doesn't stow the clothing, yet, but perches himself on the edge of Matt's bed, coat over his arm and fingers clenching and unclenching into the fabric of the scarf. The mess of his own mind is coiling slowly around and through itself, his complex mental sorting process currently weighted down from its usual unmanageable chaos into a more tolerable analgesia. His hand turns up after a momentary consideration, extends toward Matt in offer. "{I'm more practiced than I once was. You don't have to pick either.}" july 2009 Lucien has perched atop a picnic table, sneakered feet planted on the bench and his tongue swiping a dab of spicy mustard off the corner of his mouth. His other hand, unencumbered by hot dog, is extending down to show Matt his phone screen, an article pulled up on the screen (replete with many pictures), How to Wear a Grey Suit (A Guide For Stylish Men) "You think I'd look good in that? You know how many Juilliard alums go on to Broadway?" His thumb is tapping at one of the suits in particular. "{I'm never going to afford red carpet kind of style on fifty buck blowjobs in the park. Were some great photographers at LaGuardia, I'm sure someone could make me look real good online.}" When he drops back into English the schwas and broad dipthongs of his mildly Queens-tinted accent have dropped away, words carefully softening and graced with just a hint of francophone flavoring. "What is life but a series of inspired follies?" With one leg folded up onto the bench seat, Matt doesn't sit facing his brother so much as facing past him. He lowers his own hot dog, overloaded and half-devoured, to study the image Lucien presents him. "Mm. Darling, you would look splendid in a burlap sack," he says, not quite dismissive but rather non-committal. "Oh, but this--" He indicates a more fitted jacket with broad lapels, "--would suit you just so if you filled out a bit." His smile is brilliant and completely assured. "{Between your acting chops and classic good looks, you can charm any man into your bed and out of his money.}" He tips his head back to study his brother. "{Whatever the fortunes of your schoolmates, I know you will be a star.}" He covers his hesitation with another bite of his hot dog, so skillfully anyone but Lucien might have missed it. Then, finally, with a heavy note of concern, "{Only, it'll be hard enough trying to make it in theatre with your--}" He pauses delicately. "{--other challenges. I won't have your addiction hurting your prospects even more.}" The shake of his head is slow, faintly disapproving. "{You simply must get clean.} Never lose a chance: it doesn’t come every day." Lucien cannot help a reflexive shiver at even the mention of a burlap sack, a brief prickle rippling across the surface of his mind and then settling again as his forefinger traces lightly back and forth against the smooth surface of his phone case. "{Other challenges?}" The echo comes with a small puzzled frown -- that is chased off his face in the next moment by a faint blush, head ducking and his hand clamping tighter to still the circling of his finger. There's clearly an irritated protest forming -- perhaps several, judging by the stiffness of his posture, the discomfited twitches in his mind. He swallows them down with a mouthful of Coke, shaking his head and not quite looking back at Matt. "{It helps. Sometimes. You have no idea how loud it gets in here.}" He's staring down now with little appetite at the remainder of the hot dog that he'd been so recently enjoying. "{I -- don't know if I can.}" Matt watches Lucien with an air of long-suffering forbearance as he works steadily through the rest of his hot dog. "{I have got some idea.}" His eyes narrow, his gaze piercing and critical when Lucien averts his. "{And you'll have my support.}" His power clamps down on his brother's, using it to re-order Lucien's own sensory and emotional processing, alleviating his discomfort with far more force than finesse. "{You don't need that shit.}" Then, just like that, he brightens again, all sweetness and effervescence. "{If I kicked it, so can you.}" november 2009 It isn't quite late but then, it is a weeknight, after all, and it is certainly later than the hours Lucien has tended to keep as he adjusts uncomfortably to the rigors of the demanding conservatory schedule. His mind is still all a tumult as he slips back in, over-stimulated, jangling in disorder that is only mildly kept in check by nearly-faded chemical dampening. Despite the mental disarray, the soft tune he's humming under his breath is cheerful, an ease to his posture that falls warily away once he gets inside. He sets the tote bag he's carrying down on the floor (some of the objects protruding from it still have bright bows and cards accompanying), hesitating before letting the door swing shut behind him. Matt is sitting in semi-darkness, the single weak bulb of the sconce lighting his haggard face to sinister effect. The handle of Popov on the breakfast table beside him had been more than half full earlier, and is now nearly empty. Also laid out haphazardly on the table are a collection of items: a lighter with the safety band removed, a handful of syringes bound with a length of rubber tubing, a neatly folded packet of foils, a tiny clear plastic bag of white powder. "{So, this is where all our money has gone.}" His speech is slurred but shockingly calm, his gaze unsteady but icy. "{Are you bent on being a stereotype? Or getting yourself killed? My gods...}" He rises and advances on his brother, menacing despite his smaller and weaker frame. His next words are disgusted, spat as much as spoken, "{You are just like Mother.}" december 2011 Matt sits on the edge of the bed, a library copy of China Mieville's Perdido Street Station open in his lap. He is not, at the moment, reading, his eyes fixed instead on the works neatly arrayed on the nightstand. Notwithstanding the direction of his gaze, much of his attention is focused on his brother, nodding off and emitting occasional soft noises of pleasure. For Lucien the artificial euphoria is fading along with his consciousness, all the pain and tension and exhaustion that normally plague him bled away to leave him something like peace. Matt, on the other hand, is torn between the illicit thrill of his power and a paradoxical seething resentment as he regulates his brother's heavily altered neurochemistry. He turns, stretching a hand out for Lucien's, then pulls it back sharply and turns away again. His fingertips brush rhythmically over the smooth plastic book cover for a moment, his jaw tightening hard and then releasing as his eyes finally drop to the page. october 2014 Cancer wards have their own smell, a harsher chemical miasma that overwhelms the usual antiseptic scent that suffuses all hospitals. The odor of healing poisons is ambient in Matt's room at the moment, the only fluids entering the central line in his chest normal saline and a slow, steady drip of morphine. He's not wholly asleep, but neither has he been fully cognizant for some time. "{Gods, but this is nice,}" he murmurs softly. "{I still want to go home. I want to go home, Luci--for Halloween.}" He sighs contentedly, eyes fluttering shut yet again. "{But this is so, so nice.}" Lucien sits at Matt's bedside, the exhaustion etched heavily into his features and the slump of his posture giving his neat grey suit an ill-fitting look. He's been quite preoccupied with his phone, but looks up when Matt speaks. "{I know. I know. Though if we have to decorate in here I think this place lends itself well to the macabre, no?}" He hesitates, eyes tracking to the IV drip with a slight catch of breath before he reaches to rest his hand over Matt's. His posture eases almost immediately, tension bleeding out of his shoulders as some of the feeling spills over from Matt into him; what washes back is a brief flutter of guilt that he clamps down on swiftly. He closes his eyes, settling back into his seat. "{Right. Nice.}" august 2016 Matt doesn't so much as knock before slipping into Lucien's dressing room, but then, the soothing touch of his power preceded him from down the hall, his reach farther now and his control more nuanced than it had been before his stint in Prometheus. His eyes are wide and his grin bright, his cheeks fuller and rosier than they've been in many a year. "{That was magnificent, darling!}" He closes the door behind him, bolstering his brother's power just enough to sense him properly, his pride and his wonder. "{You were magnificent.}" His smile never wavers, but just for a moment he feels wistful and a touch disconsolate. "You've done so well in my absence, I..." His joy, never entirely fled, bubbles back up as he crosses the tiny space in two steps and rises up onto tiptoes to kiss Lucien's forehead. "{I knew you could do it! Whole and thriving and clean, no less.} Bravo!" Lucien has been at his dressing room mirror, wiping the last vestiges of makeup from his face, but rises with a start at the unexpected entry. The wide-eyed look on his face melts into a swift smile at Matt's praise. "Oh, I --" But he cuts himself short as his brother continues, head dipping down. The dimming of his smile is, at least, obscured as he tugs his sweat-damp shirt off to pull a tee shirt on instead. "{I'm just so glad you're here to see it.}" december 2016 It's only to be expected that the night has been charged; final curtain on a successful show, plenty of laughter and tears alike at the cast party, plenty of promises to stay in touch meant in earnest but likely never to be followed through on. At some point earlier in the night Lucien's neurochemical landscape was charged, too, tangled up and humming bright with sensory chaos and runaway emotion -- -- but that was then. Though he does look at first glance to be sleeping, draped across the futon in his room that he has not bothered to convert back into a bed, there's a torpidity of his mind now far too heavy to be solely accounted for by sleep. The blue tinge to his lips and nails, the slow and shallow breaths, thready pulse, back this up still further. Matt's bare feet on the stairs are almost if not quite silent as he pads down into the kitchen and opens the tea cabinet. His power stretches, languid and half-reflexive, to check on his brother, and he freezes mid-motion. The tin of Longjing slips from his hand to clatter on the counter and he rushes to Lucien's room. He skids to a stop beside the futon and drops to his knees, tipping his brother's chin back and pressing two fingers to his carotid pulse. "{No, no, no...}" The soft rapid litany pours from his lips unbidden as he casts about frantically. Then rises and dashes out into the bathroom across the hall, tearing through the admirably stocked first aid kit. He returns shortly with a red nylon pouch, his breath coming fast with rising panic. His hands shake as he fumbles out vial and syringe both, no time to fuss over air bubbles as he draws up the naloxone, forces the needle through his brother's trousers and into his thigh, never mind that the dulled and unguided sharp will surely bruise, and pushes the plunger home. His other hand snatches up Lucien's phone, his own still upstairs. "{Please gods--any god, please--bring him back to me.} This--this is my will, so mote it be." december 2016 The antiseptic tinged air, the banks of monitors, the wiring and tubing running to the bed, all these things have long since become intimately familiar. Lucien is usually on the other side of the bed, granted, and he doesn't look much comfortable with his current position as he drags himself up out of sleep, mind ticking its way back into some semblance of its regular order even before his eyes have opened, one hand reaching to pull off the nasal cannula attached to his face in a swift and irritable jerk. It's only then that he looks up, looks over. The work he's been doing to tidy his disorganized neurochemistry collapses in a heartbeat. His eyes shift to the guardrail, the needle in the back of his hand, the far wall, anywhere but the bedside chair. "{I'm sorry.}" There's a roughness to his words, diction shed of his usual practiced polish. His hand twitches; he doesn't tug at the needle in it, instead quashing the agonizing rasp it sends grating at his nerves with a vicious will. "{I've been trying -- I swear I've been trying. I'll do better this time.}" Though he had been all charm--with just a touch of imperious demand when necessary--with the hospital staff, there is no expression on Matt's face now. An ancient battered paperback copy of Neverwhere lies closed in his lap, his thumb brushing slow and rhythmic over its soft fuzzy fore edge. He stills when Lucien stirs, mouthing something inaudible. His eyes lift, his affect still blank though his power threads deeper and steadier into his brother's. A faint "no" is all he can manage, at first. Then, more adamantly, "No. {Darling this--I drove you to this.}" He scrubs one hand over the dark stubble on his chin, grimacing. "{To begin with, yes--but I should have listened to you later, too. I should have heard you.}" Passion gradually creeps back into his flat speech. "{If you need it--gods, Luci, if you want it--so be it. You don't have to hide your solace from me.}" He stretches out and tucks his hand into his brother's, careful of the IV catheter. "{You don't have to pick either.}" september 2018 The rehearsal schedule for a cold opening on Broadway is grueling; some degree of strain and exhaustion is only to be expected. Some time earlier in the evening there was plenty, for sure, pain and overwork clear in the landscape of Lucien's mind -- -- but that was then. It's quieter, now, heavily subdued beneath a soporific chemical blanket that mutes the turmoil, leaving behind only a peaceful euphoria. Draped over his futon, his eyes are unfocused, looking through rather than at his computer monitor where Anne with an E is paused on the screen, fingers languidly scrunched into the soft throw blanket that he's fully forgotten to actually pull up over himself. From the kitchen, Matt's off-key rendition of "Irreplaceable" from the very show Lucien is rehearsing weaves in and out between and beneath the whistle of the kettle, the soft burble of water, the clink of teaware. The touch of his power from afar is steady and light, using the other man's power to monitor his respiration, and nothing more. He returns shortly with two steaming celadon mugs of Jinxuan oolong and places them within easy reach. Then he tucks himself beside his brother, pulls the blanket gently up without dislodging Lucien's grasp on it, and leans forward to hit "play". june 2019 The month has gotten no less hectic for Lucien since the Tonys, juggling a glut of interviews and appearances around his performance schedule and work at the Club; that he's been in the backyard with earpiece in one ear, tablet in hand, laptop on the patio table is hardly an unusual occurrence. More unusual is that he greets the familiar electrifying presence that interrupts him with relief rather than annoyance, actually setting aside his work for a short time; by the time the motorcycle thrum signals the disappearance of his guest he's almost marshalled his energy to dive back in. Though he doesn't, quite yet, slipping inside first to meander to the living room, offering out a thick foil-backed ziploc sachet to his brother between two fingers, neatly labeled with a sticker on its front: THC 24% CBG 1%. The smaller baggie he's tucking away into his own pocket has no such labeling. Ensconced in his favorite armchair, Matt has also been working. In addition to his laptop and the stack of promising (and not-so-promising!) books under review for his curriculum, he has poured himself a sizable glass of chilled vodka. He brightens when his brother enters, but then his expression does something subtle and complicated. "{Thank you.}" He accepts the sachet of marijuana, though his eyes are tracking the other bag. Just briefly, before they flick up to Lucien's face. "So," this sounds aggressively neutral, "when did that start?" His head tips, a quick unimpressed jerk toward the front wall through which the sound of Ion's bike is still fading. Lucien has already started heading back to the garden, but comes up short in the kitchen doorway, his brows hitching upward as he turns back around. "Ah --" There's several beats of silence, his expression quietly blank even as a careful shifting is happening in his mind. "I cannot say I am entirely versed in that niche of subcultural history, but I gather the Mongrels have been in pharmaceuticals quite some years now." His eyes lower, and if they track over the glass on the table, it's only very brief. "Though if you mean between us, Ion was kind enough to begin making house calls during your last relapse. Always remembers your preferred strains, too." Matt's teeth grind slow at the first part of Lucien's explanation, his eyes going unusually steady as they tend to when he is suppressing the urge to roll them. "How decent of him." Still mild, though his stiff posture looks ever so slightly less prickly, now. "{I expect you'll be needing that soon enough, no?}" His hand turns up gracefully to indicate the pocket where Lucien had stashed his heroin. october 2020 There will be plenty of food at the gala, but as is his habit Lucien is eating beforehand. Has eaten beforehand, his plate long since emptied though he's still seated at the counter, dressed tonight in a charcoal twill suit in a slender cut, though not quite fitted, pale pink broadcloth shirt beneath it impeccably ironed, the subtly geometric red tie knotted in an unaccustomedly informal half-Windsor, and black horsebit loafers. The outfit itself has been changed more than once, but he seems as content with it now as he is going to get; his critical attention has turned instead to the holographic computer display in front of him, where he's been fussing with his speaking notes for some time. Statistics pulled up in another window about failure rates of abstinence-based approaches to recovery, small adjustments to his wording (-- importance of access to resources without judgment --) (-- meeting people where they are, not where you want them to be --), hesitating with a thoughtful scuff of his knuckles against his jaw over one section relating the aid their mobile outreach team provided him as a street worker in his youth (an asterisked note beside it reads, personal anecdote: sound vulnerable!) Matt meanders into the kitchen--dressed only for an evening snuggled up with a good book and even better dog--and props one elbow lightly on his brother's shoulder, his eyes skimming the holographically projected script. "{Mm. I should have been happy to accompany you, but I don't feel like becoming a minor celebrity in quite this way.}" He glances down and straightens up so he can reach to adjust Lucien's slightly crooked tie knot. "You'll be off book by the time you arrive. Perhaps worth mentioning 'without judgement' ought not to mean 'without education'. Harm reduction is a vital fallback but..." He tsks softly. "...still harm, no?" Lucien opens his mouth as Matt reaches for his tie, but his protest dies unspoken on his lips. He studies Matt's face, a quiet thoughtfulness in his expression, and then turns back to his display. A small twitch of fingers collapses it neatly, the tip of his head perhaps a thanks or perhaps merely acknowledgment. "Mmm," is just soft as he slips off his stool and out from under Matt's arm to pluck up his plate. "That's quite alright, I'm not sure it's quite your crowd." may 2021 It's growing late -- for a Tuesday, at least -- when a cab pulls up outside. The jangle of Lucien's mind precedes him to the door, a blurry alcohol sheen not nearly enough to ease its exhausted overwork. A soft jazzy melody accompanies him in, hummed low and maybe more languid than it was originally intended. He's slumping heavily back against the door before he sheds his two-tone black derbies and the jacket of his gray chalk stripe suit, draping the latter carefully over his arm before he pulls himself back upright. Matt is sitting stiffly upright in his armchair, still in his dapper work clothes despite the lateness of the hour. As Lucien straightens up he flings a little plastic zip bag of white powder onto the tea table--it's mostly empty. The squat glass that remains in his other hand is entirely empty. He sets it down as he rises--right next to the coaster. He's actually drunk enough to weave a little as he crosses the room toward his brother. "Ostie de calisse de tabarnak..." He flings one exasperated hand toward what remains of Lucien's stash. "{It is simply not possible you can be this stupid!}" he cries, his voice breaking. "{Whatever happened to trusting me?}" The look of relief on Lucien's expression when he sees Matt is ephemeral, in an instant shifting back into blankness. Though it's the table that Matt gestures at, his inward curled shoulders and small step back seem very much like recoiling from the smaller man. That is fleeting as well -- he straightens soon enough, expression placid as before but a tightness on his voice and the clamped-down regimentation of his mind. "{Trusting you? Pardon, but where did you find that, again?}" He doesn't wait for answer, only giving a small shake of his head as he stalks past Matt and to the kitchen. "{Forgive me. I'd foolishly thought the purpose of a safety plan was seeing to my safety. Had I known it was to balm your ego I would never have dreamed of involving other friends in my life.}" When he reappears it is with a glass of water, which he sets down on the coaster, now. "{You might want that before you turn in.}" may 2021 The soft knock at the door likely wasn't intended to open it, but the door swings open all the same. Lucien is carrying a mug of tea in his hands, still steaming; there's a faint furrow in his brow as he slips over to set it down on Matt's nightstand. The frown only deepens as he glances down to the bed, the splayed battered copy of Neverwhere fallen open on the floor beside a length of rubber tubing, the man not-quite-sleeping atop the covers. He drops to the edge of the bed with a soft sound of dismay. The hand he reaches for Matt's pulls back at first, quick and discomfited, but his next touch stays, teeth clenching as his mind twines through Matt's, steady and practiced in his regulation of the other man's severely dysregulated neurochemistry. If he prays, he does it silently, his own breathing slow and steady as he tries to coax breath back into his brother's barely-moving chest.